


Steady

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling and Snuggling, Insomnia, M/M, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes finds himself unable to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady

**steady**

Pronunciation: \ˈste-dē\

Function: _adjective_

**1 a** **:** direct or sure in movement **:** unfaltering **b** **:** firm in position **:** fixed **c** **:** keeping nearly upright in a seaway  
**2** **:** showing little variation or fluctuation **:** stable, uniform  
**3 a** **:** not easily disturbed or upset **b**_ (1)_ **:** constant in feeling, principle, purpose, or attachment _(2)_ **:** dependable **c** **:** not given to dissipation **:** sober

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Ink and chemicals stain his wrists, dots of blue and black and crimson, their colour mirroring that of the circles beneath his eyes almost perfectly, marks shifting and changing on shaking hands in the silver moonlight, so very cold on his skin. He squints and leans closer to his notebook, too dark, too dark to see, he needs light, more light, but he can’t get up, he just needs to finish that one formula, he knows he’s almost got it, almost, almost finished, almost. The world blurs before his eyes and he’s cold, so cold, so very cold and he just needs a little longer and he’ll figure it out, but he can’t concentrate because the clock is ticking to his right and on every third tick-_tock_ the hand gets caught for the eighth of a second and his own heart beats too fast in his chest and he can hear the muscle contract and his temples are throbbing in time with his pulse and his throat is dry so dry and his hands are shaking and he’s tired but he can’t sleep and he needs just another second and he’ll have it just another second he’s almost got it almost just one more

 

Watson’s uneven gait grounds him somehow, like a broken metronome, an arrhythmic heartbeat, it is comforting in its lack of perfection. A soft hiss and the smell of phosphorus, white light blinding him for a second and then a gas lamp sputters to life, filling the room with warm light, so different, so very different from the moonlight.

 

Scars and stains stop to shift then, cease to move, remain fixed and still his hands shake and he cannot seem to make them stop and blotches of ink cover most of what he has written and he grits his teeth, breathing shakily as a shudder, a spasm runs through his entire body. And then Watson’s hand on his shoulder. Warm, steady, steady, steady, something akin to comfort bleeding through Holmes’ shirt, into his tense muscles, getting into his blood stream and spreading through his entire body, warm and calming, until he leans back against Watson, head resting on Watson’s chest.

 

Watson’s heartbeat is comforting in a way that only familiar things can be and Holmes lets himself be pulled up and away from the desk and onto the settee. And with Watson’s pulse, his even breaths in his ears, his warm, solid body beneath him, arms holding him safe, Holmes’ hands cease their shaking.

 

He closes his eyes then, numbers and formulas and ethanol wiped from his mind and the ticking of the clock really wasn’t so loud in the first place. And for a few blissful hours Holmes slips into oblivion and sleeps, Watson’s heart thumping steadily beneath his ear.


End file.
